Cursed By Darkness
by i'mnotcrazy82
Summary: AU Horror fic.  House and Wilson are grasping tightly to the humanity that they have left.  Will they succeed in retaining it, or will they let darkness overcome them.  Vampire!House; Werewolf!Wilson!  No Slash!.  Just good Hilson friendship only.
1. Chapter 1

_Rating – M for Horror-type Violence, and the things that go with that._

_Pairing – House – Wilson friendship. No slash._

_Categories - Horror, Supernatural, Angst, Hurt-Comfort, Adventure  
_

_Disclaimer – Bwhahahaha, seriously? Nope, not mine, but dude, do I ever wish. _

_Any OC's though, those are products of my alcoholic muse, who just returned from a jog to Tijuana..._

_Also, I don't own **Being Human**, even if this isn't a crossover. More like inspired by, but wanted to get that out of the way, just in case_

_Summary – Total AU horror fic. More details to be found inside. House and Wilson are living in the world of humanity, trying to save what's left of theirs. Will they succeed, or will darkness over come them both?_

_**A/N -**_

_Long story short, you can blame this one on the crazy and vivid dreams I had after watching **House** and **Being Human** back to back last night right before bed. This is a horror fic, and a product of my overactive imagination. Things will be explained as I go on. This mainly focuses on House and Wilson, but it is **not** slash at all. Just friendship. Thanks for indulging me on this one. It's kinda like James Wilson, P.I., and Moving On, just a chance for me to stretch my imagination a little, it's off kilter, and not like my standard Huddy fics at all. Also, there might be little Huddy in it, but not like you would like, so if you only like my Huddy fic, you might want to skip this one :)_

_It also might be a little gory, as well as violent, at times. Perhaps not for the fainthearted._

_Thanks, and, if it's your thing, enjoy -_

_**Cursed By Night**_

_Even a man who's pure  
And says his prayers by night  
(He won't hear your prayers)  
May become a wolf_

_When the wolf bane blooms,  
And the autumn moon is bright  
(There's a full moon tonight)  
Man may become a wolf. _

_~ **Wolf - Iced Earth, Horror Show**_

It was a typical spring night in Princeton. A relatively warm breeze stirred in the cool air, a harbinger of summer's imminent arrival. A bright, full moon hung over the city in a cloudless sky, illuminating all in its pale, silver glow. In a large park, on the edge of the city, the shadows of the trees stretched like skeletons in the bright light. It was quiet in this area of the city, the houses stretched farther apart on larger plots surrounding the large expanse of woodland. A handful of deer who had made themselves at home rustled in the groves of oak, elm, maple, and poplar, the branches only just starting to bud. A few owls hooted in the trees, welcoming the warmer weather, and the easier hunting summer would bring. Other nocturnal animals stirred, rooting around in the trees and shrubs. A small creek wound its way through the few acres of woods, the churning water slightly swollen from the melt of the last snow, just a mere week before.

Somewhere in the dark streets near the refuge, a car door slammed, echoing in the quiet night, even though the sounds of the city weren't that far off, though they were muffled by the foliage. The park itself was a haven for other nocturnal activities, usually of the illicit human kind. Flesh and vice and pleasure were usually bartered for under the branches of the silent trees, away from watching eyes. Drug dealers and pimps had made their home here, hidden from the prying eyes of law enforcement that prowled the dark alleyways of the city.

A figure sat on the edge of a stonework bride that crossed the the ink black water of the creek, the water highlighted sparkling silver in the bright moon light. He hated the full moon; there was too much light, made it too easy to see. He shivered a little, the air still chill, reminding him that winter wasn't too far behind them; the weather man on channel eight was calling for snow in the next week. He sniffed the air, smelling wet earth and bark, a far cry from the rancid smells of the city; of exhaust and rusted metal, and urine soaked alleyways. He sneezed, and decided he hated nature. It was too clean, too quiet. He jumped at the sound of raccoons chittering as they chased each other across the bridge, and he turned up his coat collar, shivering a little. His man better get here fast, because places like this gave him the creeps.

Bored, he picked up a few pebbles that had come loose from the bridge, or had been tracked there from the people that ventured into the park during the day; he didn't know which. He rolled the small stones around in his hand, not feeling their texture through the smooth dark leather gloves he wore. Snorting a little, he checked his watch – two minutes after midnight. His man was late. He decided he'd give the man eight more minutes before he left; the park gave him the creeps. He didn't know why, but it did. It was quiet, so very quiet. The trees loomed over him, sinister and dark. Every sound seemed to echo in the night, louder and stretched. Unfamiliar hoots and calls reverberated among the trees and shrubs, causing his heart to beat faster, and sweat began to bead on his forehead, despite the cool, crisp air. Every noise seemed to occur in time with the beating of his heart, and the trees seemed to close in around him, trapping him within their borders.

"Mac? You okay, man?" A familiar voice broke the spell of the woods, breaking his claustrophobia.

With a sigh, and a small, weak smile, he turned to face his man, who was standing at the threshold of the stone bridge. "Yeah, Eddie, I'm fine. I just hate this place. Mother nature and all that shit," he grinned sheepishly. "Give me asphalt and exhaust fumes any day of the week."

"Ya, I hear dat." Eddie looked around at the canopy of just budding branches hovering above them, his dark, greasy hair hanging in his equally dark eyes. "Dis place gives me da creeps, ya know." He shrugged, then stepped out on the bridge. "Youse gots da stuff?"

The man nodded, and reached into his pocket. "Ya," A quick transaction, and a few things changed hands so rapidly, that one idly watching would have seen more than a handshake. Eddie flipped the collar up on his coat, and he looked around, hunching down, making sure that no one could see what was going on. "You gonna be okay, Mac?"

Mac nodded. "Same as last time?" he asked, glancing around the woods nervously.

Eddie nodded. "Ya. Stick 'round here for a few more, an' let me clear outta here. Dat ways, we don't get no suspicion, eh?" He gave Mac a wry smile, when, truth be told, he just wanted to get out of the park, too. Mac wasn't the only one who didn't like the feel of the woods.

"Yeah," Mac agreed, reluctantly, glancing around at the empty, lonely woods. "Got it."

"Cool," Eddie glanced around again, the stepped off the bridge, his boots scuffing along the worn, flat, smooth stones of the path. The foot steps were a reassuring guard against the dark emptiness of the woods at night. An owl hooted in the trees, its call long and forlorn. Mac checked his watch, giving Eddie ten minutes to clear out. Only a handful of precious seconds had ticked past, and Mac swallowed his fear. It wasn't anything he could but his finger on, just an icy hand that grabbed his bowels and squeezed hard once Eddie was out of sight and hearing.

A ragged howl broke through the woods, and Mac felt his hair stand up on end and his eyes grow wide. Were there wolves in this park? He tried to think hard, but he didn't know that much about nature. He reached inside his jacket, and he pulled out his piece, clicking the safety off. He glanced around the splashes of shadow and silver caused by the bright full moon, it now seeming as bright as the noon day sun, except there was no color; everything was bathed in shades of gray, from the whitest silver to the darkest charcoal black. He tried to peer past the tree trunks, into the darkness that lay just behind, but he couldn't see anything. His hands gripped the edge of the crumbling stone railing peering out farther, over the creek and beyond, thinking he saw something move...

The piercing scream that echoed over the tree tops hit him like a knife to the gut. His eyes went wide, and he whirled around, tightening his grip on the cold gun in his hand. "Eddie," he called. "You okay?" He took a few steps towards the end of the bridge, when he heard the warbling scream again, and this time, it was accompanied by a gut wrenching howl. His heart was hammering so hard, he thought it was going to breakthrough his ribcage. He turned around and he made to run away from what ever the thing was that was howling, the opposite direction that Eddie had headed in.

What stopped him was a tall, gaunt figure standing at the edge of the bridge. The man wore a long, dark coat, and he had his hands in his pockets. The cool breeze stirred the coat, causing the bottom hem to swirl around the man's calves, giving Mac the impression of an Old West gunfighter. "Who the fuck are you, man?" Mac managed to call out, nervously glancing over his shoulder. The screams and howls had died down, but that didn't reassure him. He was convinced that whatever it was that had howled was now going to come his way, and he was determined to put as much space as need be between himself and it, whatever _it_ was.

"I wouldn't worry about that," the man spoke, the light spring breeze ruffled his peppered hair, the moonlight reflecting off of the gray. His voice was smooth and cold, like the water that rushed over the stones in the creek.

"What...what do you mean?" Mac moved his finger over the trigger of the gun, even though his hand was shaking violently. Something about the man standing a few yards in front of him sent chills up his spine, and his voice was like ice water trickling down the back of his neck, freezing him. "You a narc?" Mac spat, with more bravado than he felt.

"A narc?" the man laughed. "Do I look like a narc?" He smiled, a flash of pearl white teeth that shone bright in the moonlight. "You're really a moron, you know, and the way your hand is shaking, I'd be more concerned if you were aiming a few feet off to the side."

"A moron, huh?" Mac grinned weakly. "You're the one who's starin' down the barrel of my gun." His hand still shaking, he aimed the gun directly at the man, who simply stood there, his head cocked slightly to one side, seemed to silently taunt him. Mac, who had been feeling at edge and ill at ease all night, finally felt the tension in him grow too taut, and it escaped in one twitch of a muscle in his finger. As the gun barked at the man on the bridge, Mac closed his eyes, wincing with the release.

Breathing hard, he cracked open one eye, and he saw nothing. He opened both eyes, staring at the now empty spot as his ears rang with the echo of the gunshot. Hesitantly, he moved forward, his finger still on the trigger, the muzzle pointed at the now empty spot. Puzzled when he moved to the spot, he lowered the barrel. Breathing heavily, he panted aloud, "where the hell did he go. No one can move that fast," he muttered, his chest rising and falling heavily as he looked wildly around.

A rustle came from behind him, but before he could turn around, powerful hands seized him, rendering him unable to move. "It's all a matter of perception," the voice breathed into his ear, hot. He felt himself shiver with fear for one last time, before he felt something stab him in the neck. His muscles froze, and then, he felt nothing.

The sun was just beginning to make its ascent in the east, but the moon had sunk down below the horizon, bathing the world in a dark gray gloom. Stars were still scattered across the sky as if released from a net, but the orange glow from the nearby city prevented most of them from being seen. Dr. James Wilson staggered naked into the small clearing that led to a well sheltered entrance to the park, far away from prying eyes. A dark blue sedan sat in a dark corner, and Wilson, still shaking, ran his fingers through his rumpled hair; he could never know if he could depend on his friend or not. With a small, jittery sigh of relief, he made his way over to it.

"You're late," came the droll voice of the driver as soon as Wilson opened the passenger side door, the man's dark hair now sprinkled liberally with gray. Wilson groaned as he slid into the upholstered seat, already uncomfortable with his nakedness. The driver wordlessly reached into the back seat, and he produced a long beige rain coat. "You always lose your clothes," he snorted, starting the ignition, turning his head to give Wilson a tiny bit of privacy as he tried to put the coat on. "You suck at being a werewolf, you know."

"That's because I always end up far away from where I left them," he grumbled, sleepily, struggling to put on the rain coat in the close confines of the car. "I suppose I should be grateful that you remembered to bring something extra, _this time_." He glared at his companion. "And you're one to talk. The vampire who can move in daylight."

"Bram Stoker lied." His friend turned to grin at him, now that he was covered by the long coat.

Wilson tightened the belt, his head bowed and his forehead was furrowed with the effort. The driver paused, then touched his face with one long, pale finger. "What?" Wilson asked, confused. He flipped the visor down to stare at his reflection in the mirror. "Was I hurt?"

"That's impossible, and you know that," The driver put his finger in his mouth, sucking on it slightly.

"Mmm, tasty," he sighed, setting back in his seat. "He had a burger and fries right before he died."

"You can taste that in the blood?" Wilson asked, feeling both impressed and horrified, and a little sick at the gesture.

The driver grinned slightly, "yeah. Cool, isn't it." He put the car in drive, and, in silence, they drove to a hotel near downtown. The events of the night weighed heavy on them both, but neither of the spoke of it. Wilson wearily rested his head on the cool glass of the door's window, watching the buildings blur as they drove past them. He was hungry and thirsty, and he'd do anything to wash the rancid taste out of his mouth. He was dreading going into work; he knew he looked like hell, but he couldn't call in. It looked like he was going to be practically mainlining coffee all day.

They pulled up in front of a tall, rectangleish building. "When are you going to get your own place." House asked out of the blue. "I know you're still moping around after Julie left -"

"She's still convinced that I was having an affair," he mumbled bleakly.

"Just because you disappear during the nights of the full moon?" his friend huffed. "Your wife is a moron."

"_She_ was the one having the affair." Wilson ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. "I know I cheated on Sam, and Bonnie..." He sighed. "Besides, I don't even want to think about what a conversation that would be -"

"It would be easy. 'Hi honey, I turn into a shaggy, smelly, horney, hungry beast every twenty-eight days, just like you.'"

He gave his friend a blank look. "You're an ass, House."

His friend smirked at him. "I know." Then he groaned, as if some sort of realization struck him.

"Cuddy's got me on double clinic duty this week." He rubbed his own face with his hands.

"Not going to give you enough time for snack breaks," Wilson pointed out.

"Bite me, Wolfy," House shot back. He gave Wilson one of penetrating looks, momentarily flashing his fangs, and Wilson bit his lip at the sight.. Daylight was hard on House, even if he didn't burst into flames like the movies.

"You first, Blood Sucker," he replied, with forced chipper. The two friends looked at each other, then grinned. "Thanks for the ride, House." He opened the door and he started to climb out.

"You owe me, Shaggy." House countered. Even through the thick, dark lenses of the sunglasses he wore, even at night, Wilson could feel the intensity of his stare. "I'm trying to stay on the wagon," he said in a low, confidential tone.

Wilson froze. "I know." He stared at the brightening sky. "We'll talk about this later."

House jerked his head in one quick nod. Wilson shut the door, and the dark blue sedan rattled down the road. He took a deep breath, before heading up to his room, drawing a few suspicious looks from the desk clerk and the security guard in the lobby. House had told him their thoughts once, during one of the few times that he had accompanied Wilson to his room, and he still flushed with embarrassment at the thought. He supposed it made more sense than how he turned into a wolf once a month, but still, the thought that House was his boyfriend, that was just ridiculous.

He made it to his room, and while he was physically exhausted, his mind was still racing. Here, alone in the small room, he was alone with his thoughts and memories, and they threatened to overwhelm him. Guilt weighed heavily on him, as heavily as the curse that left him a drooling, hulking monster once a month. A quick glance at the clock told him he didn't have enough time to lay in bed for a while until it was time to get ready. With a groan, he stepped into the bathroom, and he turned the water on to its hottest setting, hoping to scald away the scents and guilt that seemed to collect on his skin. He closed his eyes, and he allowed the hot water to wash over him, hoping that it would take away the horrific memories he had made that night.

Unfortunately, that was just wishful thinking.

**_Another quick note -_**

**_I now have my own site. Feel free to check it out. _**

forums(dot)delphiforums(dot)com(/)TWCFanFic(/)start (psst, yeah, take out the parentheses to get it to work ;-) Oh, and replace the dots with, well, dots ;-) )

Also, I post bonus stuff there that I don't post anywhere else. Just letting y'all know :-D


	2. Chapter 2

For Gregory House, working in the day shift was torture, for more reasons than one. As a vampire, he needed blood to survive. While daylight didn't cause him to burst into flames, it raised his metabolism considerably, and he burned through blood much faster, causing him to develop severe dehydration. If he continued to work without feeding, he would eventually drop into a comatose state and die, and this time, there would be no coming back for thirds. He had a guy down in the blood bank in the basement that put aside the rejected blood for him, since he was immune to the diseases that the blood carried. The guy didn't know the real reason why he did it, only that Dr. House was using it for research purposes, that excuse and the extra hundred bucks a week he was slipped to keep quiet; House didn't exactly want word spread around about it.

Unfortunately, most doctors kept nine to five hours, or, in House's case, tenish until sixish, if he didn't have a case, which required him to be active during the daylight hours. Usually, he was able to sneak off quite a bit, and drink, and, if he was in the Clinic or the labs, he was able to avoid the direct sunlight, which is what increased his metabolism. Keeping his skin covered with long sleeves and sunscreen also helped, but not as much as hiding in a dark place from sun up to sun down.

Today, he had spent the better part of six hours running differentials with his team in the conference room to his office, as well as studying the patient's scans and symptoms in his office, with the bright sun shining through. He'd felt the first pangs of hunger about an hour or so in, a sort of nudging reminder that he needed to feed. After two hours, the heightened sound of the beating hearts of his team was distracting him. It took all his willpower to keep his upper canine teeth from dropping down into full fangs; something that happened on reflex. It had taken him nearly two months to learn how to control that particular reflex, which, he found, could be triggered at inopportune times. Now, six hours without feeding, by far the longest time during the day he had gone without in the decade and a half since being turn, and the need was impossible to resist.

After he had finally come up with the most plausible diagnosis, he slipped out into the hall. He was supposed to be going straight to the Clinic, but his willpower was dwindling rapidly. He could hear the pounding hearts of the people on his floor echoing loudly in his ears, and he could smell their blood. Some smelled sweeter than others; the woman in Wilson's office had untreated diabetes, and, to him, she smelled very sweet, like thick chocolate ice cream. The gentleman with her smelled bitter, almost repulsive, thanks to the cancer in his body. House wrinkled his nose at the scent.

His stomach tightening with pain, he slipped down the hall to the elevators, hoping to get to the morgue. There, he had hidden some emergency blood bags, as a contingency in moments such as this, when he needed to feed heavily in peace. With long strides, he hoped to make it to the doors while they were open, and, just his luck, the doors to one of the cars began to open. Except that the person that he had hoped to avoid the most stepped out.

"House," his boss, Lisa Cuddy called out to him. "You were supposed to be in the Clinic an hour ago!" Her raven brows knitted together in annoyance as she walked over to him, her stride as long as the tight, charcoal gray pencil skirt she wore would allow.

"Had a case," he informed her, licking his lips. He caught a view of his reflection in the shining metal doors of the car, and he could tell he looked ill. His face was even more pale than usual, and his cheeks had begun to sink in slightly, giving him an even more gaunt reflection. "Had to run a differential," he explained further. "Cameron brought it up from the E.R."

"We're short staffed today," she went on. He stared at her, but he was becoming distracted by artery in her neck. He could hear the blood rushing through her body, following it's course through her veins and arteries. He was hungry, and he wanted nothing more than to sink his fangs into her neck and drink from her deeply. As she continued to inform him about the Clinic's troubles, and the reasons he needed to keep up his duties, he stopped listening, idly wondering what she would taste like. Rich red wine and deep dark chocolate, he finally decided, practically salivating at the thought. Or deep, dark cherries plump and sweet.

"What are you smiling at?" she asked, breaking his thoughts. She noticed his pallor, and she took a step closer. "Are you feeling okay," she asked, suddenly concerned. She rose up on the tips of her toes, the heels of her feet slipped out of her snug high-heeled shoes as she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. He could feel his fangs beginning to slip down, and he was having problems keeping them in place. "You feel feverish," she told him, not noticing his eyes dilating and slowly shifting color to the icy silver that they became while he fed.

_You have no idea_, he found himself biting his tongue to keep the words from slipping out. The monster inside of him was winning control, and he needed to escape. He heard Wilson's door open and shut behind him, where Wilson was murmuring his sympathies to the couple as they were leaving. "Yeah," he answered Cuddy, struggling not to be distracted; being distracted meant letting his facade slip, letting the beast that dwelt within him escape, and that couldn't happen. Not here, not now. "Bad sushi last night," he let her know with a grimace, clenching his stomach in pain as a sharp hunger pain hit him. He felt his fangs drop, their tips biting into his lower lip. He turned on his heel and he rushed into the men's restroom, a few yards back from the elevators.

He was relieved to find that the restroom was empty, but he knew that she would be close on his heels behind him, trying to see what was right. He rushed into a stall, and he locked the door behind him, dropping to his knees while he clutched the porcelain toilet in front of him, hoping that she would believe that he was sick, and leave him alone. Breathing heavily, he heard the door open, and he fervently wished that she would take the hint and leave quickly, before his slippery grasp on the monster within him failed completely. "House!" she called, banging on the stall door. The need for blood was threatening to completely overtake him.

"Get out," he bellowed back, panting. He could feel her fear rising momentarily, but then, it disappeared. He then heard the door open again.

"Is everything alright?" Wilson asked. He had accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Klauster out of his office, and he had spotted Cuddy confronting House in the hallway. He could tell with one glance that House had been an idiot, and that the man hadn't fed that day. After hurriedly ushering the Klausters to his assistant to make their next appointment, he disappeared back into his office. After emerging in his lab coat, he was surprised to see that House and Cuddy were no longer in the hallway. He quickly looked around, trying to see where they could have gone, then he noticed the men's room door was closing. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, and he took a few steps inside, finding Cuddy pounding on the metal stall doors, where he saw House on his knees.

"House is ill," Cuddy began, turning her head towards Wilson.

"So," Wilson drew out, "you decided to chase him down in the men's bathroom to ask him what was wrong," he asked, raising an eyebrow in question at her.

"You look pale, too," Cuddy noticed. He could hear House breathing heavily in the stall, and he knew that the man didn't have much time. "Are you sick, too?"

_No, just a long night_, he thought. "Yeah. I tried a new sushi recipe last night," he admitted. "Glutton in there wolfed it down, I didn't have as much." He paused, thoughtfully. "I did have a stomach ache all night." He rubbed the back of his head. "I just finished up my last appointment," he sighed, tiredly. "I can make sure House gets home okay."

"Are you sure?" Cuddy asked, worriedly.

"Yeah, no problem. I think we were just going to hang out and watch the game, anyway." He gave her a wane smile. "Like normal."

She nodded. "Okay." She walked over to the door, then turned around. "Let me know if he gets any better. Or worse."

"Will do," he listened to her heels click over the tile floor, then the squeaking of the door as it closed. The heavy scent of her perfume still lingered, but her scent faded after the door close. Finally he snorted. "You're an idiot," he groaned, as he pulled a bag of blood out of his pocket. "You almost fed on our boss, in the hospital, during the day. Are you suicidal?" He slid the blood bag under the stall, and he watched as the grotesque, claw like hand of House reach out and snatch it. Wilson turned around and stood with his back to the stall door, folding his arms across his body as he heard the plastic puncture. "I raided your secret, secret stash, by the way."

He heard slurping, then it was quiet. The plastic bag crinkled as House wadded it up, and Wilson craned his neck around towards the stall. "Can I get more blood without the lecture," he sneered, reaching over the door, and gesturing in a "gimme" motion.

Wilson snorted, then reached in his pocket and pulled out the second bag. The hand's pallor had improved, now much more flesh-toned than the corpse-like gray it had been, and it had filled out. He slapped the second bag in that hand, then resumed his position facing away from the stall door. "I was thinking," he said in a low voice, keeping his tone slow and contemplative, "about what you said this morning."

"About what?" came the muffled reply. Wilson had to chuckle; House was speaking with his mouth full.

"Moving out of my hotel." He rubbed his forehead; he had gotten comfortable in his hotel, even if the people there thought he was a freak. "Moving back into the real world."

The stall door opened, and House stepped out, still pale and more gaunt than usual, but relatively normal looking. "Good for you," he sighed, allowing his teeth to retract into their normal position. Putting his hands into his pockets, they left the restroom, House hunching over slightly, like he had a bellyache. They stopped at the elevator doors, and House pressed the down button. They waited for the car to arrive in silence, and Wilson hoped that no one would try to join them on the trip down.

As the car decended, Wilson rolled his eyes up to stare at the ceiling. "I was wondering," He fumbled his words, slipping his hands into his empty pockets. "I know that you're trying to stay on the wagon, and well -"

"Out with it, man!" House bellowed.

"I was wondering if you wanted to move in with me." The words burst out in rapid fire.

"I'm not gay," came House's dry response. "Besides, the nurses already talk," He turned his head to stare at Wilson.

"When's the last time you fed," he returned House's glare. The bell in the elevator dinged before House could answer, and the doors opened. He hmpfed as he stepped out of the car with Wilson at his side. They walked across the lobby, alert for people who might listen in. House thought back to the previous night, and the poor drug dealer who pissed and defecated on himself before he passed out at the slightest prick of his fangs. House had been so close, then, to drinking fresh blood; it would have been the first time in six months, but somehow, the thought had disgusted the human part of him, the part that he was trying to get a hold of, so he deposited the unconscious man into some nearby bushes before seeing what Wilson had done to the other dealer who had been there. Turns out, the unlucky fellow who had crossed the werewolf's path had enough meth and coke in his system to render himself toxic to the great wolf, after Wilson had bitten him. House didn't know much Wilson retained of those memories he had made in wolf form, but he knew that Wilson carried enough guilt over what had happened to him all those years ago, and that Wilson's greatest fear was biting another person and changing them. If the man was turned, Wilson didn't need to find out, at least, not yet.

"Yesterday, after work," House finally admitted, once they were in the reletive safety of Wilson's car. "I know, I know," he held out his hand, stymieing Wilson's lecture, "I should have fed earlier, but I ran out of blood. I meant to feed the first chance I had today, but I didn't think the kids were going to pick up that case. He gave Wilson a dark look. "Don't worry, _dad_, I won't do it again."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "We're not normal-"

"Who is?" came House's rapid deflection.

"It would be a good idea for us to stick together-"

"We already _do_ stick together. The only way we can get any closer is unzipping," House snorted. "Look, I know what you're trying to do, but I'm not interested. I have my cozy little apartment, and my isolated life. If you want someone to talk to about your feelings, join a werewolves anonymous group. I'm sure there's one out there." Wilson pulled up in front of House's apartment, and House opened the . "Thanks for the ride, and don't worry, I'll get with my connection, and I'll never go to work hungry again." With that, he slammed the door to Wilson's door shut, and he went inside, alone.

[H] [H] [H]

Detective Micheal Tritter dreaded mornings like this. He and his partner, Gary Roth pulled up to the park, where a couple of patrol officers waited for them, their faces grim. Tritter stepped out of the car, surveying the surroundings. The younger officer walked over to him. "Detective," he greeted them with a slight nod.

Tritter noticed the young man was looking green. He heard his partner get out of their car, a plain, unmarked silver Crown Vic. He glanced at Roth out of the corner of his eye, then he turned his attention back to the young officer. He checked out the name tag. "Collins," he greeted. "How bad is it?" he asked.

The young man swallowed. "Pretty bad, sir," he admitted.

Tritter exchanged looks with his partner. "Well, then," he steadied himself. "Lead the way."

Collins nodded. As they made their way through the picturesque wooded park, the young officer filled them in. "Two joggers discovered the first body around dawn," he informed them. It was pretty tore up, in some bushes."

Roth cleared his throat. "In the bushes."

"Yeah," the officer nodded. "Apparently the joggers decided to get frisky." Tritter snorted in response while Roth chuckled a bit. They nodded to let the young man to go on. "The second body was discovered while we were cordoning off the crime scene and searching for more evidence. This one was barely touched at all." They had arrived at the edge of the yellow taped area, where a few other officers and a few park employees were standing around. A young couple in sweats were sitting off to the side, the gentleman with his arm around a visible shaken female. The young man had a distant stare to his eyes, and, while he wasn't as visibly upset as the woman, he was definitely affected by it.

"Tritter! Roth!" A gravelly voice called over to them. The walked over to an older man dressed in the dark blue uniform of a patrol officer. He was addressing a DNR officer about the situation, and Tritter could hear snippets of the conversation. "We need to shut the park down," the officer was arguing. "We've got to gather all of the evidence we can." The DNR was arguing against it, but the officer stood his ground. "You've got one, maybe two possible murders in this park. Shut it down and block off the entrances. If you can't do it, find someone who will." With that final declaration, the officer walked away from the gaping DNR officer. He made his way over to them, a permanent scowl etched on his weathered features. "You two, with me." They traded quick glances, then headed after the grizzled patrolman.

"What's going on?" Tritter asked, trying to take in as much as the park as possible.

"Two possible homicide," the patrolman growled. Tritter followed him through the park and over a stonework bridge that ran over a bubbling brook. It was a very picturesque scene, with the trees just starting to bud. It wasn't far over the bridge, however, that the beautiful background had been marred with drops of deep burgundy that seemed to grow in both quantity and intensity, all leading to a bloody mess just inside some bushes. Tritter pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket, and he held it over his mouth and nose; his partner did the same. From the smell, before they even saw the body, they knew it had been eviscerated.

Tritter's cold, keen eyes surveyed the scene for a moment, then took a step back. "Any identification?" he asked, softly, turning his eyes away from the bloody scene.

"Edward 'Eddie' Moretti. A two-bit punk and dealer from Trenton," came the response.

"Did you recognize him?" Tritter's eyebrows raised at the relatively detailed information.

"Busted him twice. Coke and meth fiend. He was a user as well as a dealer."

Roth spoke up, "Looks like he was attacked by a wild dog." The quiet man still surveyed the scene, but his face had a greenish cast to it. "The wounds are very ragged, from a superficial note."

"Coroner said the same thing. We won't know nothin' 'til he goes on a slab for the ME. The meat wagon's already here. Just need you two to do your thing, then we can close the scene, and get these bodies out of here.

Tritter nodded. "Has the evidence been reported and documented?"

"Yeah, Crime Scene's already been there." The patrolman snorted. "They all think they're gonna be on _CSI_, or some shit like that."

Tritter snorted, too. "I hear that." He was quiet for a moment. "I heard there was another body."

"Yeah, but we don't think it's connected." The patrolman lead them to another area of the park nearby. "Totally different M.O."

"Let us be the judge of that," he told the officer dryly, but on initial observation, he felt that the patrolman was right. The body showed no outward signs of trauma, unlike the bloody mess that they had just observed. "Possible cause of death?" he asked.

"That's for the ME to decide. No visible wounds, or nothing like that." Tritter frowned, the pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket. He put them on, the carefully walked around the body.

"Any I.D. on this one," Tritter grunted, squatting down near the head, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration as he examined the scene.

"Mick "Mack" MacLeod, another dealer, this one from Philly. Looks like they had a deal go bad."

Tritter looked up at the patrol officer, who's name was Riggins. "Maybe. We'll have to gather more evidence, see what turns up. He studied the crumpled form of the man, who's skin was cast with the geenish, chalky pallor of death. Something caught his eyes, and he gently, trying not to disturb the scene too much, even though evidence had been gathered and photos had been taken, turned the head slightly, revealing two parallel circular wounds about two to three inches apart, by his guess, on the right side of the neck.

"What the hell is that?" Riggins asked, bending over to peer at the wound.

Tritter looked up at him, grim-faced. "I'd call it cause of death."

[H] [H] [H]

Wilson was lying flat on his back in his bed, closing his eyes. Last night was the last full moon of the month, so he didn't have to worry about changing, nor the toll it took on his body. The room was dark, save for a dim table lamp near the window; even the television was off. His hands were folded across his belly, and his posture gave the facade of relaxation, when he was truly anything but. His mind raced, like it always did, tracking down the flashes of memories of what had happened during the change, everyone of them blood tinged.

A loud knock at the door shook him, and he sat up from the bed bolt upright. The impatient rapping continued, and he took a few deep breaths, trying to settle his racing heart. Recognizing the knocking pattern, he stood up, rubbing his face with his hands. He opened the door, and he saw House standing there, looking visible shaken. "What's up," he yawned, rolling his shoulders back.

House peered around the room. "Invite me in," he said, glancing behind him nervously.

"Okay," Wilson raised his eyebrows. He'd known his friend for over fifteen years, since that fateful night in New Orleans, but he found himself realizing he didn't know much about his friend's nocturnal existent, even though they spent a lot of time together. "Come in," he invited, scratching his head. He followed his friend into the hotel room, where he sat down in one of the furnished, well upholstered chairs. He tilted his head to one side, watching House as he agitatedly tap his fingertips on arms of the char. After a few moments, Wilson sighed and asked, "so, what do you want?"

House took a deep breath. "So, that thing you asked me about today?"

"About getting an apartment together so we can retain the humanity we have left before letting our dark supernatural natures take over?" Wilson was puzzled.

"Yeah, that thing," House glared at him. "You still interested?


	3. Chapter 3

After Wilson had dropped him off at his apartment, House made a few phone calls. The two bags of blood he had drank in the hospital had merely taken the edge off the hunger, and the need to feed again was building up. At the moment, there were eight people in his building, and he was a danger to them all. As soon as his man arrived with the bagged blood, he made sure all the blinds and curtains were drawn, then he sat down on the leather sofa, his feet propped up on his coffee table, crossed at the ankles, and he turned on the television. He let his fangs extend down, and he punctured the bag with them, allowing the thick, metallic liquid to fill his mouth.

If there was one thing about vampire movies and television shows that he hated the most, it was the depiction that vampires made a bloody mess of their victims, with blood dripping from the chins and fangs and smeared all over their faces. House had learned early that any vampire worth his salt never wasted blood like that. There was no point to it, and vampires that did so usually didn't live that long. It was the equivalent to the glutton who slobbered and dribbled food everywhere, and vampires that were sloppy with their feeding usually were killed by their own kind before they could attract undue attention to their natures. The less humans knew, the better, or so House had been first taught.

Another thing he had discovered was that vampires nowadays rarely needed to outright kill their victims, unless there was no way to get a hold of bagged blood, and even then, there were enough goth vampire groupies who, in the shadowy underground clubs, were more than happy to be fed from. It was a mistake he thought, to kill, when so many would give willingly. The blood bank tech that supplied him with his bagged blood was one of those groupies; he'd even had tattooed "scars" on his neck to make it look like he'd been bitten. House didn't find it particularly "cool", but the guy was devoted, even if House had refused to turn him, and he kept him supplied with blood, so there was no need for House to hunt.

Vampires, he learned, had pretty strict rules about their numbers and their behaviors, but House had never been a stickler for rules, and keeping a "pet", like Allen was a gross infraction of some of those rules. He had been told that they were established to limit human knowledge of their kind, but in truth, House had found, it was mostly to keep their established hierarchy, and it wasn't long before he struck off on his own. He had been blinded by the promise of immortality and, but the veneer had worn off, and House had come to terms with what he had become.

House realized that he had drained the bag, and he took it out of his mouth, balling it up and tossing it into a trash can. His man had done well, bringing him the blood of a drunk. Most vampires could tolerate small quantities of food and drink; it was an evolutionary trait that they had developed to allow them live among humans. But, unfortunately, a large percentage of them couldn't tolerate undiluted alcohol, and, much to House's dismay, he was one of the unlucky ones. Now, if he wanted to get buzzed, he had to drink from someone who had imbibed, and who had enough of the drug in their blood to affect him. Usually he was only able to get one or two bags of the tainted blood a month, so getting them was a treat, and it was well needed today.

He settled back on the couch, bringing up the second bag to his mouth. He was starting to feel full, and he felt flushed and satisfied, like he had once felt after eating a heavy meal. As a human, he had always had a high metabolism, and he had always been able to eat a lot to keep going, and as a vampire that really hadn't changed. He fed more than most of the vampires he knew, which, granted, which weren't that many. From what he had gathered, he wasn't exactly welcome into the inner sanctums of the vampire world, simply because he chose to live amongst humans, instead of skulking along in the shadows, ready to jump his meal in a dirty back alleyway.

He emptied the second bag, a familiar tingling feeling of mild intoxication thrumming through his veins. He stared blankly at the television, a small half smile on his face. The fact that he kept company with a werewolf didn't endear him much to the vampire world, either, but he wouldn't trade his friend for the world, even with as clingy and needy as Wilson could be. He'd never admit it, but his friend kept him from tumbling over that edge that would cause him to lose what was left of his humanity, even if he wasn't prepared to move in with him. Sure, life was lonely sometimes, but it was _his _life, and at the moment, he wasn't ready to share it with anyone, even platonically, despite all they had been through together.

He closed his eyes, and he folded his hands across his full belly. He had met his best friend in New Orleans, during a medical convention. Normally, he tried to avoid those like the plague, unless they were someplace he actually wanted to go to, and the music of New Orleans had been a beckoning light that he just couldn't turn away from, like a moth drawn to a bug zapper. The first day of the convention itself had been as dry as he had thought it would be, but that night, in the small piano bar near his hotel had been more than interesting.

There weren't too many people from the convention in the small bar, most of them favoring the bar in the hotel, or the more modern clubs closer to the hotel, but he had been drawn to the well worn facade of the little hole in the wall bar sandwiched between a small Cajun restaurant and a tiny boutique, all three bottom level business that reeked of old New Orleans, with apartments with french doors occupying the higher levels. Some of the balcony doors were open, and he could hear faint music drifting out like clouds over the street. He entered the bar, and he immediately felt at home, with the well worn bar and seats, and pictures of musicians plastered over the walls. The room was darkly paneled, with dim lighting, lending to its atmosphere. There were no live acts playing that evening, just an ancient, battered jukebox that rested in the corner. Old mirrors and beer and liquor advertisements hung helter-skelter on the smoke dinged walls.

He had taken a seat at the bar, and he ordered a straight bourbon. The bar was sparsely populated, not surprising considering it had been a Tuesday night. He recognized a few people from the convention, including the brown-haired, mopey looking man that had spent the first day clutching a manilla envelope. The man was sitting at the far end of the bar, staring bleakly into his half full glass. House recognized that look; it was the look of a man who had just found out that either his wife was leaving him or cheating on him. Given the envelope, House guessed that he had been served a divorce.

A loud group of large men in leather sat at a few tables at the other end of the small space, drinking heavily and jeering at each other noisily. Another group of college age men came in, and they sat at a table near the jukebox. There were a few women in the bar, and due to the small space, it felt more populated than it was. One of the guys at the table near the jukebox stood up, and walked to the battered machine. A few seconds later, Billy Joel's _Leave A Tender Moment_ started to play. House glanced at the lone doctor at the bar, and he saw the man close his eyes in a wince. House tilted his head to one side, and he started to study the young man, wondering what he was going to do.

While he was watching the doctor, he became increasingly uncomfortable; the unsettling feeling that he was being watched himself. He surreptitiously glanced around the bar, but didn't see anyone directly staring at him, even though he still felt like holes were being bored in the back of his head. He quickly tossed back the rest of his drink, and he signaled the bartender for another. "I'm walking home," he snarked at the bartender when he saw the questioning look on the man's swarthy face. "I'm at a hotel two blocks away, and trust me, I won't be driving."

The song ended on the jukebox, and the same man who had played it stood back up. "I know you're not driving home," the bartender told him in a thick bayou accent. "It's just, the streets here are mighty dangerous, _mon ami_." He set another glass on the counter. "Just giving you fair warning, _no?_

The same song started up again, and House blinked at the man as he returned to his table before he turned his attention back to the bartender. "Thank _god _you're not working for the visitors bureau," he rolled his eyes at the bartender. The guy just glared at him before he walked away to fill other orders. House had lived in Boston and New York, as well as skipping cities and countries all his childhood; he thought he could handle whatever the Big Easy had to offer. Besides, he thought, his hotel was really only a few blocks away; it had taken less than ten minutes for him to walk there, and he had walked slow, taking in the sights and smells of the city, both good and bad.

The song had ended again, and the same guy who had chosen it the first two times stood up. A few seconds later, the first bars to the same song came over the speakers. House watched as the brown-haired doctor at the end of the bar twitched a little, his hands shaking. He heard a few annoyed mutterings from the women sitting two stools down from him, and he turned to catch their eyes. The red-head just gave him a small, appraising smile, then flickered her eyes from him to the table full of college guys and rolled her eyes, showing her feelings about the situation, then she turned back to her friend, casually chatting away. The shaking man finally stood up, and he had a few hushed words with the guy who kept playing the song, then he walked back to the end of the bar, and he began nursing his drink again.

House took a drink, and he kept casually observing the two women at the end of the bar. He still felt the hair prickling up on the back of his neck, and he knew he was being watched, much as he was watching the young brown-haired man at the bar. He tried to shake off the feeling, and he went back to nursing his drink. He stole another glance at the young women near in, and the red-head caught his eye and gave him a swift wink. He felt a smug smile form, maybe going to this conference was a good idea.

The last strains of the song ended, and he signaled the bartender again. "Not for me," he said, noticing the swarthy man's annoyed look. "Whatever the girls ordered, make them one on me," he fished a few twenties out of his coat pocket, and he slapped them on the counter." The bartender smiled as a collective groan rose up from the bar as the same song began playing again. House felt the bar vibrate a little as the guy at the end of the bar stood up, and he walked towards the douche who kept playing the same song. After a few exchanged words, he sat back down, staring into his drink. He glanced at the red-head, who's drinks had arrived. The bartender jerked his head towards House, who raised his glass to the ladies. They returned the gesture, then went back to gossiping amongst themselves, casting surreptitious glances at House, who just grinned at them.

The song wound up again, and the patrons of the bar began to grumble. "Goddamn it!" came a growl from the guy at the end of the bar, catching House's attention. House swiveled around just in time to catch the guy saying something angrily at the douche who kept playing the song. The guy's face was turning red, and he was gesturing wildly. The jerk kept his hands out, and was condescendingly trying to placate the guy, who, in response grabbed a bottle of the table, and threw it across the room...

Right through what looked like an antique mirror.

House's jaw dropped, then he felt his lips curl up into a smile. The entire bar was quiet for a moment, a stunned silence as they took in the scene. The man himself seemed to be frozen in the position of his follow-through, his hand still outstretched in front of him. Then, a wild whoop filled the bar, and the big/, greasy guys in leather stood up, and they began to throw shot glasses at the table where the college guys were. House saw the bartender reach for the phone; he knew the cops were going to be called.

"You're friend needs some anger management," a sultry, heavily accented voice purred in his ear. He turned around, and the red-head was standing next to him, leaning down to whisper to him.

"He's not my friend," House explained. "At least, not yet." She gave him a puzzled look. He just smiled back. "He's not boring," he said, as if that explained it all.

A knock on the door shook him from his dream. He snorted, only to find that the empty bag was still in his mouth, attached to his fangs. He pulled it out, wadding it up, before getting up. He rubbed his face, still shaking the aftereffects of his vivid memory-dream. He hadn't thought back to how he had met Wilson in years, and it shook him a little. That was the night their lives changed forever. The knocking continued, not allowing him to dwell too much on his recollection, so he wadded up the plastic blood bags, and he hid them under the couch cushions until he could dispose of them properly.

The knocking continued, and he huffed. "Hold on, hold on. I'm coming," he growled. "I'm..." he grabbed the door handle, and he jerked the door open. He froze, recognizing the person standing in front of him, and he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with the motion. He felt frozen in time, back twenty years ago. Her hair was still the vibrant shade of come-hither red, and her mocha brown eyes beckoned him, even now he felt his pants suddenly become uncomfortably tight. Her skin was milk-cream pale, well, the portions of it that wasn't encased in skin-tight black leather, as it had been for the past four hundred years. "Anastasia," he greeted her, not daring to lick his lips, even though he wanted to. For a predator like her, that was a sign of weakness, and weaknesses were to be exploited.

"Gregory," she purred, her richly accented voice curled over his entire body like thick, fragrant smoke. She smiled, her fangs extended down; she never hid them unless she was hunting amongst humans. "May we come in?" He glanced behind her, and two other men stood there, their eyes shielded by thick sunglasses, even now after sundown, but their mouths were open in feral smiles, their fangs extended. This was not a social call.

Wordlessly, he stepped away, allowing them to file in. Immediately she wrinkled up her nose at the smell. "So, it is true," she growled, causing the other men to mirror her reaction. "You do still keep company with the wolf?"

He stared at her, then shrugged. "He's a friend."

The trio laughed, a cacophony of different accents and tones. "A friend?" she asked, astonished and amused by the thought. "A friend? He is a dog, and your Benjamin Franklin had a wonderful saying about dogs." She circled him, her leather clad hips swinging in a provocative manner. It was one part sex mixed with two parts danger. She rested the tip of her index fingernail on his collarbone, and he heard his shirt rip as she continued her sinfully slow strut around him. "About one who lays down with them comes up with fleas?" Her eyes glittered maliciously at him, and her smile was anything but friendly. "Do you have fleas, Gregory?"

The men snickered, and House began to have trouble finding his voice. "No," his voice cracked, so he cleared his throat. "Ahem, no," he said, much louder. I don't have fleas, though I have this itch I need to scratch, do you think you can help me that?" he bravely smirked as he gestured at his crotch.

Her hand was a blur as she slapped him in the face, a loud crack echoing in the tiny apartment. Her nails dug into his skin, and then he spun to the ground. He looked up, and he watched her as she slipped a finger into her mouth, sucking the blood off. It would have been incredibly erotic until she spit it out seconds later. "Bagged blood?" she shrieked, her finely arched auburn eyebrows lifting up to her hairline. "Bagged blood. I gave you the gift of immortality, teach you the ways of the Night Slayers, and you live off of bagged blood?" She shook her head, incredulous at her new information. "You are no better than a...a...an infant!"

"Or a human," he said quietly, rising to his feet, his cheek still smarting. "I don't hunt, I don't feed."

"You live amongst mortals, pretending to be one of them?" she asked, sneering. The two men sneered distastefully, too. "You are a disgrace, Gregory. You could be a prince amongst men, immortal and moral alike, and yet, you skulk in the bright light of day, and keep company with a dog." She shook her head sadly. "I had heard you had fallen far, my beloved Lucifer, my Morning Star, but I wish I had not known how far you had fallen. Living amongst the kine rather than feeding on the herds."

She began to caress his cheek where she had struck him, but he caught her hand with his, keeping his grip strong and tight. "Listen, _Stacy_," he bit out, knowing she hated the shortening of her name. "I live my life, or after life, or whatever, on _my_ terms. I keep a low profile, and, by not hunting, I don't invade anyone's hunting grounds." He looked deep into her coffee colored eyes. "I'm over you, now get over me." He bared his teeth, allowing his fangs to drop, trying to intimidate the older vampire.

She sneered. "I was _over_ you a long time ago, lover. She gave her men a quick look. "I have found others far more worthy to take your place." She gave him a long look that told him she said the opposite of how she really felt. "Keep your dog in a kennel, love. Werewolves are nothing but trouble, and they will get you killed." She sauntered towards the door, her leather-clad hips swaying seductively. She paused at the threshold, her two men stopping close behind her, and she threw him a dark look over her shoulder, her eyes glittering in the light above the frames of her dark sunglasses. "And there won't be any coming back, next time."

The door shut behind her, and House suddenly felt very shaky and sick. He let out the lung full of air he had been holding in, and he leaned against the couch. After taking a few minutes to steady himself, and to make sure that the other vampires weren't coming back, he reached for his jacket and keys. He climbed on his bike, and he revved the engine, still checking his surroundings, making sure that Anastasia didn't change her mind and take him out right then and there. Once the bike warmed up, he took off, suddenly feeling the need to talk to Wilson.


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson slammed his palms down on his desk, frustrated as House shot down another housing option. "It shouldn't be this hard to find an apartment" he groused, frowning at his computer screen.

"It's not my fault your ex-ex-wife sucks so badly at her job," House informed him, playing with a yo-yo while sitting on the leather sofa in Wilson's office. Wilson's office didn't have the glass windows that House's did; it just had the glass door, and the sofa was positioned so it wasn't in direct sunlight. In the relative privacy of the office, House had just finished drinking a bag of blood, and now he was annoying Wilson.

"There's a condo on 51st that she wants us to go see," Wilson rubbed at his forehead, reading the e-mail Bonnie had sent him. "And a place on second street." Wilson blinked. "The place on second street has a full basement," he mused.

"Full basement?" House became interested. "Neighbors?"

"Doesn't say," he read on. "Might be worth looking at?" He glanced up at House with a grin, "Think Cuddy will give you the afternoon off Clinic duty?" he asked, raising a woolly eyebrow.

House smirked back. "Better idea, Chase can be me for the afternoon. We can go look at the place, and my Clinic hours get logged. It's a win-win."

"Why does Chase get to be you?" Wilson asked with a frown.

"Little British rat ratted me out to Cuddy last week, letting her know I was napping in the morgue instead of doing my Clinic hours," he stood up. "Let me give him my badge, and I'll get my coat, and we can go."

Wilson nodded. "I'll call Bonnie and set everything up."

The house that they were going to look out was easily the twentieth place that they had been to see. House had found fault in just about all of them, convinced that Bonnie was trying to screw them over. There were certain places he seemed absolutely against, especially the condos and apartments in larger complexes. Wilson had slowly realized that House was vetoing them because of all the people around, and he couldn't help but wonder why. House hadn't drank live blood in months, and even then, it had been consensual; he didn't hunt strangers. He himself always made sure he changed in the woods, away from as many people as he could get. He also never changed in the same woods twice, sometimes even driving out of state to find more isolated spots.

One bite or scratch didn't necessarily meant you changed, but Wilson still didn't want to take the chance. There were several circumstances that had to fall into place to cause the person to become infected enough to turn; Wilson had accidentally bitten two or three people over the years, and he and House had tried to keep tabs on them over the years, and, a relief to him, no one had turned. He had stumbled over them in the woods he had chosen to turn. He never wanted to bite them, but once he was in the wolf form, he had no control over his actions.

He shuddered, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. He hated what he had become, and he hated becoming a monster once a month. He had contemplated suicide a few times before, but House had been there to talk him out of it.

There was a report on the news a few weeks ago, about a body that had been found in the woods that had shown signs of a dog attack, and that had him frightened. He didn't have many whole memories from when he was in wolf form, but he was certain that he hadn't killed anyone. From the flashes of memory that he was able to recall, he had bitten a poor bastard, but he didn't think he killed the man. There had been a body found near the guy, but the cause of death hadn't been released, other than it was suspicious, and it was under investigation.

He needed a safer place to turn, but they hadn't ever found something safer than the woods. The full basement of the townhouse was inviting, for both of them. House was usually awake during the day, but it would provide him with a safe haven on his days off. Depending on how reinforced it was, he could turn in it. When he became a wolf, he didn't become a monster wolf with super strength, like the movies portrayed, and silver didn't hurt him at all. He became more of a regular wolf in size and strength, although maybe a little more intelligent, at least that's what House told him, and judging from the size of the pawprints he'd found, House wasn't lying – for a change.

He swallowed, flipping on the turn signal. House glanced at him from the passenger seat, rolling his eyes behind the dark sunglasses he wore. "Seriously, unclench," he said, before turning to look out the window. "You're the one who wanted this stupid place."

"And you're the one that agreed to it," he sniped back, seeing Bonnie's car in front of a brick townhouse. "This was a mistake," he grumbled. "My hotel is cheaper."

"And everyone thinks your gay," House teased him.

"I can't believe you read their thoughts," he mumbled, pulling up to the curb.

"Yeah, and you don't want to know what Cuddy visualizes doing to me late at night," House smirked. "Let's just say it involves leather, handcuffs, and Tabasco sauce," he informed Wilson as the car stopped. Wilson screwed up his face, and he shuddered. House could be a real bastard sometimes, and there were images in his head that were going to take him hours of distractions to get rid of.

House had explained to him once that he couldn't read everyone's minds, just those with open thoughts. He couldn't read Wilson's mind because thanks to his "condition", Wilson's thoughts were clouded and muddled. House could read his emotions rather well, but not his exact thoughts. In a strange way, it was a relief; he didn't want House in his head all the time. It was a rather disconcerting thought.

When he reached the front steps, House was already there, talking to Bonnie. "James!" she greeted him with relief; she had never liked House.

"Hi, Bonnie," he greeted her warmly, giving her a small hug.

She lightly kissed him on the cheek. "I think you two are really going to like this place..."

"Isn't that what you said about the others," House snarked.

She glared at him. "I used all the information that you gave me at the other showings. This is probably the best fit in the price range you gave me," she turned around, and she unlocked the door. "The owner died last winter, and his children live out of state," she told them. "They're very interested in getting rid of it," she explained, flicking the light on. "Unfortunately, their dad was a very eccentric artist, and this place is going to take a lot of work if you want to remodel it." The walls in the foyer were painted a deep red, with sunburst patterns done in oranges and yellows all over it. "Everything's up to code, and all the appliances are new," she lead them into the ocean blue painted living room. The light fixtures were interesting bits of metal welded together.

House poked at one of them. "So, the guy was a bad sculptor as well as a painter?"

Bonnie chuffed, trying not to laugh out loud. "You can say that," she smirked. "He was also a drug addict, who was paranoid that the government was out to get him and his artwork." She lead them through the house, pointing out other features, showing them the state of the art appliances and large rooms.

"What about the basement?" House asked, interested.

"Well, it's a basement?" Bonnie shrugged, leading them to a door just off the kitchen. They all trekked down the stairs to a steel reinforced door at the bottom of the steps. "He used it as his studio, and he was worried that people would come in and take his artwork, so he reinforced the whole room." With a little effort, she opened the door, huffing a little. House looked around the room while Wilson stood by Bonnie, his hands in his pockets. "Why's he so interested in the basement?" she whispered.

"Music room," he answered quickly. "He wants something soundproof so he can't disturb the neighbors with his playing." He gave her a small little smile, hoping he sold the lie.

She nodded. "I would have never thought that he was that considerate," she mused, then she smiled widely at him. "I'm so happy for you, you know. I always kind of suspected that your friendship was more than, well, you know, friendship.

Wilson blinked, trying to process what she was saying. "Oh, OH!" His eyes widened, and he turned to look at her. "We're...we're not gay," he stammered.

House took that moment to step up behind him, and loop a long arm around his shoulder. "He's such a closet case," House told Bonnie with an indulgent grin. "We're taking such a HUGE step, and he gets a case of cold feet," he sighed. "I guess I should be worried, but he hasn't even given me a ring yet." Wilson had the good graces to blush, and Bonnie just blinked. "Right snookums?"

Wilson swallowed, then forced his face to smile back. "Right, _Greg_," he said, dryly. He cleared his throat. "You see enough of this place?" he asked, putting slight emphasis on the sentence.

"Yeah," House checked his watch. "Whoa, we need to get back to work. Nice seein' ya again, Betsy."

"Bonnie," she said through a professional smile.

"We'll let you know about the house as soon as we get a chance to talk about it," he told her, then blushed again, realizing what he said.

"It's okay," she told him, giving him a small hug before they followed House up the stairs. "I think I kinda like this side of you."

"What side?" he asked, puzzled.

She smiled. "You know, Jill and Sandra always wondered when you were going to come out of the closet, despite my protests that you were," they reached the top of the stairs, and she gave him a small, but smoldering, smirk, "one hundred percent straight." She whirled away from him, and he followed her out the door. "I'm glad for you, James, I really am." She gave him a pat on the arm. "I guess I'll hear from you soon. About the house," she smiled. He stood there for a moment, watching her leave, then sighed heavily. Thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, he followed her out of the house.

[H] [H] [H]

Detective Tritter walked into the Medical Examiner's office, holding a cup of coffee. The small man sat hunched over a computer, his back to Tritter. The man ran a hand through his shock of shaggy gray hair, cursing at the screen. Tritter smirked a little, then knocked on the wooden door frame. The man whirled around, his dark blue eyes glittering through the thick lenses of his glasses. "Micheal!" he greeted, smiling slightly, his teeth slightly yellowed from coffee and cigarettes. "How long ya been standing there."

"Long enough to know if Bill Gates winds up dead, we've got a good suspect," he said with a small grin, shaking hands with the gnome-like man's hand. "Brought you a coffee."

"Bribery," the ME said with a smirk.

"More like, keeping in your good graces," Tritter returned his smirk. "I heard what you did to Detective Kowalski, Karl," Tritter explained. "I'd rather that not happen to me."

"Kowalski is a jackass, and he deserved every bit of that," the ME said, standing up from his workstation. "I take it you got my e-mail."

"Yeah," came the simple reply. "What did you find?"

"Interesting stuff," Karl explained, vaguely. He stood up, grabbing the lanyard with his keys and badge on from the desk top. "Let's go, I'll show you."

They walked down the labyrinth of hallways, heading towards an autopsy room. "Hang tight," he said, unlocking the doors to the room. "Lemme make sure they're still here." Tritter stood outside the door, wishing he'd had time for a smoke before he'd come in the building. He'd been trying to quit for a while, and he had been failing, miserably. Maybe he'd try the gum...

"It's clear," the door opened. He pulled out the first cabinet. "Okay, first guy. Eddie Moretti."

"Official COD?"

Karl sighed. "Trauma due to what looks like dog attack," he said, frowning. "DNA found in the wounds points to a wolf."

"A wolf?"

"Yeah, I didn't think there were any roaming free in New Jersey."

Tritter frowned, and he was quiet for a moment as he processed that information. "There aren't, unless someone's exotic pet got loose."

"Yeah," Karl frowned. "Anyway, the teeth and claw marks severed the hepatic artery, as well as the ruptured the liver and spleen. Poor bastard bled out."

"Nasty way to go."

"Yeah," Karl agreed. "You see similar types of wounds in dog attack victims, especially those of big, powerful dogs. Like mastiffs and such."

"Good reason to enforce the leash law."

"Right." Karl looked up at Tritter. "Need anymore info on this one?"

"Naw, everything else I can find in your report." He glanced at the other cabinets. "What about the other guy?"

"Ah," Karl slid the slab back in, and he closed the door to the cabinet where Eddie's cold corpse laid. "That one's kind of interesting. Totally different M.O.," he explained, opening another door. "Mick MacLeod," he said, sliding the slab out. "No outward visible trauma except for two wounds in the right side of the neck, approximately two inches apart. They both nicked the jugular, and he bled out." His brow furrowed as he studied the corpse. "What was weird is that he was completely drained of blood."

"Drained?" Tritter asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, like nearly drained completely dry." Karl used a pen to point out the wounds on the neck. "And these look like they were made by teeth, except we found no traces of saliva or other DNA was found on his body."

"Like a vampire?"

"Yeah. Maybe one of those crazy cults?" Karl looked up at Tritter, raising his thick gray eyebrows. "I heard vampires are in with the kids these days. My niece gushes on and on about some sort of sparkly vampire from a book. Edmund or Edgar, or something."

Tritter let out a dry laugh. "Edward. My daughter's in to 'em, too. Can't get enough of it." He looked around. "That it?"

"Yeah," Karl nodded. "Those were just the weird things I didn't cite in my report." He gave Tritter a nervous grin. "Can't have people know I think that werewolves and vampires are running loose around here."

Tritter let out a small bark of a laugh. "I understand. I don't think you'll have to worry about it. The only monsters I'm interested in are the human variety." He paused, "are you sure you didn't pull any DNA off the second body?"

Karl nodded. "Yeah. No fingerprints, either."

"Alright," Tritter sighed. "I've got to go to the crime lab, anyway, see what they have to say about the evidence at the seen." He followed Karl out of the room. "Thanks anyway, Karl."

Karl nodded. "If anything else pops up, I'll let you know." He shrugged. "Everything else in in my report."

"Good to know." He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Vampires," he shook his head. "Know anything about vampire cults in Jersey?" he asked.

Karl shook his head, taking the comment in all seriousness. "Nope, sorry." Karl locked the door, then they headed back to his office. About halfway there, he stopped. "But," he mused. "There's a kid down at the hospital, I overheard one of the ambulance drivers talking to some of the folks here about it, he's got tats here," Karl gestured at his neck, "the driver thought they were weird. Look like vampire bites, or something like that."

"You got a name?"

Karl shook his head. "You might want to ask Danny about it, the driver."

Tritter nodded. "You know which hospital?"

Karl nodded. "Yeah, PPTH."

[H] [H] [H]

"What did you think the place," Wilson asked, giving a short glance to House before turning his eyes back to the road.

"Eheh," House shrugged. "It's got history, and style," he grinned at Wilson. "And the basement's secure. Nothing like a crazy, acid dropping paranoid sculptor and artist to design a very secure basement of solitude."

"Could it hold me?" Wilson asked, furrowing his brow as he pressed on the brake at a red light.

"Yeah, pookie." House grinned at him. "So, do I need to be expecting a ring anytime soon?"

"You're an ass, House," came the weary sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

The full moon snuck up on Wilson, something that hadn't happened for a long time. Distracted by moving, he hadn't realized it was that close until one day he was in the clinic. The week before the full moon, his senses became even sharper, especially smell. Of his five senses, that was the one that had become the sharpest after he was bitten, and it was also the most distracting.

He had been in the Clinic, treating patients during his scheduled time there, when a strong odor nearly overwhelmed him. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was overwhelming and vaguely familiar. He finished with his patient, who had been complaining of a minor ear infection, and he exited the room, trying to hone in on the scent without calling too much attention to himself. He spotted Cuddy coming out of her office, showing a pretty woman with hair the color of wheat the clinic. She wore the white coat of a doctor, and she smiled as Cuddy talked on. He realized the smell was coming from her, and he could see her making surreptitious glances at him.

He didn't know if it was just instinct, or he had smelled the scent when he was in wolf form, but he knew what she was.

He'd never met another werewolf, other than the one who had bitten him.

He was curious. Not only was she lovely, but he immediately felt he shared a connection with her, odd as it sounded, even to him.

Then it struck him – she knew what he was, too.

"Dr. Wilson," the nurse at the station tried to get his attention. Reluctant as he was to tear his attention away from the female werewolf, he knew he had a job to do, and he needed to act normal. He turned his head towards the battle ax that manned the nurse's station, who was impatiently holding a file. "Patient in Exam Four," she told him, rolling her eyes. "I'll be sure to have Ling warn her about you," she told him, glancing at the doctor he had been interested in.

It took him a moment to realize that she was talking about his reputation as a Lothario around the hospital, and his cheeks flushed. "Thanks, Brenda," he stammered, causing her to grin a bit. All the nurses seemed to enjoy seeing him flounder for words, when they weren't flirting with him. He snatched the file from her hand, then hurriedly walked to the exam room Brenda had indicated.

After he'd finished his Clinic hours, he hurried up to his floor, not heading first to his office, but to House's. He paused at the door, his hand on the handle, . House and his team were running a differential. House was scribbling something on his whiteboard, while his team sat around the table, like ducklings around their mama duck. Wilson grinned to himself as the thought, then took a deep breath, pushing through the door.

"Another time, Jimmy," came the curt response from House; Wilson didn't even have to say anything to announce his presence. "In the middle of something. You'll have to wait for your afternoon delight."

The team smirked and sniggered behind House's back, Chase giving Wilson a quick glance. "It's okay, I can wait," Wilson said, grinning a little. "Besides, you have an appointment with Cuddy before me, anyway." He put his hands in his pockets, and he studied the board while the team worked, throwing out ideas at House. As they ping-ponged ideas, he started to see connections in the symptoms. "Do a lymph biopsy," he blurted out.

Four heads jerked towards him, and he shrugged. "It's an odd presentation, but it looks like Non-Hodgkins that's metastasized.

House stared at him, his jaw agape, then he nodded. "Didn't ask for a consult, but you saved some time." He turned to his team. "Go. Do. Confirm." The team stood up and scattered, leaving them in the room alone. House turned to the whiteboard, studying the symptoms. "Good call," he finally said, nodding. "It makes sense." Wilson smiled, taking the rare compliment. "Now, why did you need to speak with me, and I assume it's not about installing the cable, because I called the -"

"I saw another werewolf," he blurted out. House stared at him. "Well, smelled first, then saw." He sat down heavily in one of the team's vacated chairs, running a hand through his longish hair; he needed to get a haircut.

House blinked at him. "And?"

"And?" He repeated, a little dumbfounded. "I've never...I've never met another, you know," he stammered, suddenly nervous.

House smirked at him. "A she-bitch, huh?" At Wilson's dirty look, he just shrugged. "You only get this nervous about women." Wilson rolled his eyes, then buried his face in his hands. "So, what are you gonna do about it?"

"I..I don't know?" he stuttered. "I mean, I've never once-" He took a deep breath. "I've just can't go up to her and say, 'Hi, I'm Wilson. I'm a werewolf, too.'" He sighed.

"No," House commented, rolling his eyes. "She'll probably smell you first, like you did here." Wilson gave him a dirty look. "What?" House gasped, pretending to be hurt. "You smell like dog. Any vampire or werewolf could tell you that," he snorted. "So, is she hot?" Wilson shot him another dirty look. "You do know that your looks can't actually kill me, right?" House snorted. "And it's a valid question. He grinned. "I'm always looking to get laid."

"You mean you always pay to get laid," Wilson snorted, then sighed. "Yeah, she's hot. Hair the color of wheat – natural. I can smell it when they use hair dye. Blue eyes that can put yours to shame-"

"Stop flirting with me," House was grinning at him. "You're making me all verklempt."

"You're an ass," Wilson snorted.

"Tell me something I don't know," House snorted, then checked his watch. "The kids are gonna be out a while. Lunch on you?"

Wilson hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. Let's go."

[H] [H] [H]

Edward Holland was the supervisor in the hematology lab, and right now, they were shorthanded and backlogged, so the last thing he wanted to deal with was the asshole cop who had just flashed his badge in front of his face. "Look, man, everything's kosher here, and we're behind on our work," he grunted, hanging up the phone. "So make it fast."

Tritter looked at the thin, harried man, then nodded. "We're looking for one of your employees. Allen Goode?"

"Little prick didn't show up today," Holland said, growling a little. "Third day in a row. Which is why we're behind."

"He hasn't shown up for three days?" Tritter asked, suddenly interested. "Have you tried to contact him?"

Holland gave the detective a dirty look. "Of course. He never picked up. Straight to voicemail a couple of times, rang threw other times." He sighed. "Look, Allen was never what you would consider a reliable employee. This isn't the first time he's just disappeared for a few days, usually thanks to some goth chick he picked up at that club he hangs out at." He sighed shaking his head. "He's a good kid, and a great worker, when he shows up, and we just can't have him keep doing this." He glared at the cop. "Now, do you mind,? We do have work to do."

"Thanks, Mr. Holland, I think that's all." He paused, frowning. "What club is that?"

Holland frowned, his eyebrows knitting together, then he picked up the phone. He dialed, then barked "Taylor? Yeah, I got some cops here looking for Allen. Yeah, I know, he's gone, but do you remember what the name of the club he kept talking about is?" He nodded. "Thanks. Yeah, I already sent a request to Cuddy and HR to hire in a new tech. We're just waiting on Cuddy's approval. Yeah. Thanks." He hung up the phone. "Black Velvet. Don't ask me the address, 'cause I really don't know," he huffed. "Now, can I get back to work?"

Tritter gave him a cold smile. "Yeah, thanks again, for your help." He scribbled down _Black Velvet _into his notebook. "We appreciate it." He slipped the notebook into his pocket, then headed down to his car. He had attempted to draw up information on Allen Goode, but hadn't been able to find anything – no vehicle record, no criminal record, no phone number, nada. It was like this kid didn't exist, even though the orderly they had gotten the information from had been sure that was the kid's name. Frowning, he reached for his cell phone in his pocket, and he flipped it open, pressing a number. "Yeah, the kid worked here, but he doesn't anymore. Apparently just stopped showing up for work three days ago. According to the supervisor, it's not the first time he'd done that. Yeah, I got the name of a club the kid hung out in. I might talk to the Dean of Medicine about getting his work record, but we're gonna need a warrant for that. You'll get on it? Great. I'll see what I can find out about this club; the name rings a bell. Call me when you get something." He flipped the phone closed, pensive in thought, then headed down the hall.

[H] [H] [H]

Dusk had fallen when House finally made his way to his car. A quick drop by the hematology lab, and he had secured a supply of blood for the week. His usual man, Allen, had skipped town, but there was another guy, a kid named Taylor, who also supplied him, even though he didn't know about House's true nature. The cooler was now secured in the trunk of his car, now to go home and enjoy it.

Being roommates with Wilson was both a blessing and a curse. He liked the companionship, but he hated having someone there all the time, and he really hated feeding in front of him. Even though Wilson knew about his true nature, it was difficult to feed on blood in front of him. He had been paying rent on his old apartment, and he was wondering if he should just move back in, when a prickling feeling came over the back of his neck. He stopped and looked forward, finally calling out, "Anastasia, I know you're here."

"Well, Love, you haven't lost all your skill," her rich voice purred out as she stepped out the shadows, smiling indulgently at him, like she would a favored child. "Even though you smell like dog."

His heart began to hammer in his chest. "What do you want, Anastasia?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her as she sauntered forward, her hips swaying hypnotically.

Her pink tongue darted out, licking her lips, and he felt all the blood in his body rush directly to his groin, causing stars to form in front of his eyes. The woman exuded lust; she was a drug, and he'd already had a taste. Despite his better judgment, he wanted more. "I wish you to rejoin me, Prince," she told him, straightforwardly. "I want you to take my side, like I envisioned you doing the moment I saw you in New Orleans."

He fought to keep his thoughts straight. "No," he shook his head. "No. Go away." He forced himself to move, to walk past her, but she placed a palm on his chest, stopping him in his tracks, even though he towered over her. Her scent, of blood and lust overwhelmed his senses, and she rose up, drawing his head down for a kiss.

Fire erupted from the touch of her lips, like it had did that first night. He gripped her upper arms tightly, lost briefly in the moment, then he shoved her away, putting all his strength behind it, causing her to fly five car lengths away. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, scowling at her bitterly. "You're a one trick whore, you know," he growled.

"You liked it," she panted, standing up and dusting herself off. "Once," she gave him a scorching look. "I am offering you a position of power – far more power than your little job here can give you. Power and protection," her eyes were smoldering.

"Protection?" The world caught his ear, and he tilted his head to one side, asking the silent question.

She gave him a dark smirk. "There are those who see you as weak. You don't drink fresh blood, and you choose to live with a dog." She tossed her silky hair back, giving him a superior look. "There are those who would like to see you gone, lover. And if you aren't careful, they will succeed." With that she turned, disappearing in the shadows.

For a moment he stood there, his heart thumping in his chest. Her threat rang in his ears, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

No one threatened him, nor his friends, and there was gonna be hell to pay for those who did.

[H] [H] [H]

House hadn't returned home before Wilson, but he couldn't worry about that. A dinner party with some colleagues had kept him out later than he wanted to be on this night, and he could already feel the queasiness that accompanied his change filling his gut. He hurried to unlock the door, tossing his briefcase and coat on the small table in the foyer while hurriedly taking off his shoes. He rushed to the stairwell, shedding clothes, praying that the basement prison would hold. He paused at the door at the bottom of the stairs, pulling off his underpants before entering the room, naked, not exactly reassured by locking the heavy steel door behind him. The pain and anticipation had already begun to build in his gut, when he turned around, shrieking in surprise.

The doctor he had saw at the hospital stood there, naked. Her hair was unbound, flowing around her shoulders, and her blue eyes shown in the dark. "Forgive me, Dr. Wilson," she said, apologetically. "I asked one of the nurses for your address."

"I'll have to thank them later," he muttered.

She smiled, her teeth dazzling white in the dark, before taking a step back while doubling over, the change beginning to overtake both of them. "Yes," she growled out. "You will."


End file.
